


Veronica Magic

by TrueMyth



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Episode: s01e22 Leave It to Beaver, F/M, Mentions of Aaron Echolls, Mentions of Don Lamb, Missing Scene, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV Second Person, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueMyth/pseuds/TrueMyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan grapples with Veronica’s betrayal. Set between scenes during Leave it to Beaver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veronica Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Loveathons’s desk smut challenge (on LiveJournal). An experiment with second person PoV. Beta’d by the 1st person of betahood, mutionousmuse.

You try not to let that Barney Fife wanna-be’s words echo through your head like marbles in a steel drum, but it’s hard.

“ _She’s the one who came to me with information about you._ ” 

With an ironic point and subtle smirk, the jackass had left you there with a few words about cooling your heels until daddy’s lawyers arrived. And he had chuckled, as if this last betrayal was more entertaining than last night's Leno. And to be fair, it was. Fucking bastard.

You can’t help replaying them in your mind, your words of a few minutes ago, “ _maybe work some of that Veronica magic that gets people out of these things_ ,” you had begged.

You try to shut out the words, erase Lamb’s smirking face, and so you lean into the corner of the interrogation room wall and your fingers find your closed eyelids and press into them. The pressure of your fingers turn the dull black to a fiery red and sends flashes of white, like lightning against a sunset sky, skittering across your field of vision. The burning sensation at the edge of your eyes recedes. You blink; peering through your fingers at the empty room.

But it’s not empty. She’s standing there, against the interrogation table, in front of your chair. She looks just like she did when you last saw her, smiling up at you in front of your locker before you’d kissed her forehead and moved on. And you realize now that her smile is wistful not because she’s sad that she can’t be with you, but rather because you’re not behind bars. She thinks you’re a murderer. That you could have really left Lilly broken and bleeding on a cold cement patio. Is that it? Does she really know you that poorly?

She can read your mind, this apparition. She shakes her head slowly, opens and closes her hands, but her smile stays on, doesn’t change. Its wistfulness is pissing you off and you lift yourself off the wall, ground your feet into the floor and flick your eyes carefully around the room. The shades are still drawn closed on the viewing windows out to the hall. Lamb had wanted privacy for his interview.

You face Veronica again and realize that she’s changed. She’s now wearing that sexy layered tank top thing that she wore before she ran out on you, when you’d told her about the salt licks and who you _had_ drugged at Shelly’s party. _Fucking typical, Mars. Remind me that I’ve betrayed you too._ You glare at the memory. She simply shrugs and your attention flies to the exposed bra strap on one shoulder. It’s a light blush of color, almost white under the black and hot pink and your mouth waters. She’s still wearing that wistful smile and you clench your fists and shake off your vague arousal.

You move to stand before her, between chair and table and dream girl, and there is so little room, you can almost hear the rasp as your jacket brushes phantom fabric. _You said you trusted me._ Looking down into her eyes you almost miss it when the smile slides off her face. Her hands climb the air between you, hovering over your chest. Her non-touch is as electric as the real touch of the genuine girl and you try hard to hate her even as you wonder what it would be like to touch this mute ghost. You bend at the neck and she stretches her legs to move to meet you. A current hums along the front of your body as concepts like trust and betrayal leak from your brain and you’re almost kissing this soft, warm, thoroughly imaginary girl.

“ _She’s the one who came to me with information about you_.”

It’s more effective than ice water and now you take a hard grip on the tables’ edge and you imagine her hard and bitter, with freshly shorn hair and tough-girl jacket like she was on the beach the day you shattered her headlights and Weevil tried to shatter your nose. She smirks at you like good ol' Fife had moments ago and you imagine you are pressing her into the table, grinding your mouth onto hers. She is forced to slide into a sitting position and spread her legs wide. Forced to moan your name against your lips. Forced to run her hands up your back, under your jacket.

_Fuck._

_Who’s forcing who?_

You pull back an inch. The smirk is gone, the wistful smile has returned, and now she’s wearing that scarf she had on the day you kissed her on the balcony of some run-down hotel. Had she been wearing a skirt that day? It didn’t matter because she was wearing one now, the little pleated schoolgirl scrap of fabric that you’d had fantasies about even before the kiss. Even before she’d planted a bong in your locker. Even before Lilly had died. God. Lilly. Did she really think you’d killed Lilly?

There were no answers in her sky-blue eyes. They were welling with tears like they had threatened to do when she’d told you about what had happened at Shelly’s. When she had told you how sorry she was. Her eyes didn’t answer, they asked. _Why didn’t you tell me about your fake alibi? How can I trust you when you lie to me?_

You want to wipe the tears away, but you can’t answer her questions any more than she can answer yours. To answer them, you’d have to admit to yourself that you’re not ready to be fully open to her either. Admit you didn’t trust her completely. Admit you didn’t give equally to her everything you had asked from her.

> _The physical comes so easily to you. To both of you._

You settle your hands on her knees and run them slowly up her thighs. It’s a familiar fantasy, one you love; watching her innocent eyes widen as you brush your thumbs higher and higher against her silken skin.

> _The emotional, that takes practice. You try to show her your emotions with physicality._

You brush her damp eye lids with gentle kisses, flick the corner of her eye with the tip of your tongue and taste her sadness. Your mouth finds hers as your fingers brush her center and she sings a soft sigh into your mouth.

> _Physicality is not enough. She never trusted you. Not fully. That much is clear._

Her hands are clutching the column of your throat as she shakes slightly against the table, quivering like a tightly strung harp-string will do in sympathy to its identical note played at a distance. Her fingers toy with the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. Her thumbs press just-so into your pulse point and you slide your own fingers deep inside her.

> _And you realize now that you never fully trusted her._

She’s close now. You can always tell. She’s your fantasy, after all. Each breath she takes presses her breasts into your chest and you can feel the way tense vibrations are spreading though her body, radiating outward from your busy hands. You press particularly hard, both within and without and she gasps. Bites your lip. You smile and imagine you taste blood.

> _It can change._
> 
> _If she’s not a bitch._
> 
> _If she listens._
> 
> _You can tell her the truth, this time._

You kiss her again, let her taste the blood from your lip and she moans at the salty sweetness and comes apart.

When the door slams open, you fall back into your seat. You control your breathing and make sure your lap is far under the cold surface of the interrogation table. Veronica is gone again, evicted by Fife, and Dad, and a pack of lawyers. She has been banished to your mind again but you can still picture her face. The way she looks when she comes for you, open at last and free of doubt.

You vow to yourself that you’ll see that look one day, in reality.

It only takes minutes for Dad’s high powered lawyers to get you released and you check your watch. Veronica will be leaving the house now. She always takes her dog to the beach around this time. Sometimes, these past couple weeks, you would meet her down there. You couldn’t kiss, not in public. But you could talk, if you were careful, as the dog ran free. That’s where she is now. She isn’t out working her Veronica magic, trying to set you free.

You feel the anger start to rise again.

Trust. Betrayal. Lies. Truth.

You stand and shrug off the hand Dad tries to rest on your shoulder. One quick stop at the school to pick up your car.

Next stop: Dog Beach.


End file.
